Oh Motherland! may your temples be wreathed with the oliveBy the divine archangel of PeaceFor in heaven, your eternal destinyhas been written by the finger of God.But if a foreign enemy should dareTo profane your ground with his step,Think, oh beloved Motherland! that heavenGave you a soldier in each son.

War, war without truce upon him who meansTo sully the blazon of the Motherland;War, war! Soak our homeland's flagsIn the waves of blood.War, war! In the mountains and the valley,The dreadful cannons thunder,And the deafening echoes resoundThe cries of Union! Liberty!

O Motherland, before your unarmed sonsBend their necks under the yoke,Your countrysides will be covered with bloodAnd in blood leave their footprints behind.And your temples, palaces, and towersMay collapse causing terrible thunder,And their ruins shall remain freely saying:"This was the Motherland of a thousand heroes."

Motherland, Motherland! Your sons swearTo exhale out their breath in your honor,If the buggle with its warlike toneCalls them to fight with valour.For you the garlands of olive!For them a memory of glory!For you a laurel of victory!For them a tomb of honour!

Oh Motherland! may your brow be wreathed with the oliveBy the divine archangel of PeaceFor in heaven, your eternal destinyhas been written by the finger of God.But if a foreign enemy should dareTo profane your ground with his step,Think, oh beloved Motherland! that heavenGave you a soldier in each son.

In bloody combats you have seen them,Love for you beating in their breasts,Serenely facing the shrapnel,And seeking death or glory.If the memory of the ancient exploitsOf your sons inflames the mind,The memory of triumph will becomeImmortal to crown your brow.

As the lightning bolt blasts the oakInto the deep torrent,Vanquished and impotent discordFell at the feet of the archangel.May the blood of your sons never againBe spilled in fights between brothers;May only he encounter the steel in their handsWho has insulted your sacred name.

The terrible sword of the immortalwarrior of Zempoala defends you,And his invincible arm sustainsYour sacred tricoloured flag.He will be in peace and warThe leader of the joyous Mexican,Because he surrounded his weaponsWith brilliance in the fields of honour.

War, war without truce upon him who meansTo sully the blazon of the Motherland;War, war! Soak our homeland's flagsIn the waves of blood.War, war! In the mountains and the valley,The dreadful cannons thunder,And the deafening echoes resoundThe cries of Union! Liberty!

O Motherland, before your unarmed sonsBend their necks under the yoke,Your countrysides will be watered with bloodAnd in blood will be their footprints.And your temples, palaces, and towersWill fall with terrible thunder,And their ruins shall live to say,"This was the motherland of a thousand heroes."

If to the struggle against a hostile hostThe warrior trumpet calls us,The sacred banner of Iturbide,O Mexicans, follow valiantly.And to the faithful war horses,Let the vanquished ensigns be a carpet;Let the laurels of triumph give shadeTo the forehead of the great captain.

Let the warrior return proud to his native homeTo sing his victory;Waving the palms of gloryThat he captured in the fight.Let his bloody laurels turnTo garlands of myrtle and roses,Which the love of daughters and wivesAlso award to the brave.

And he who, to the burning shrapnel's strokeFalls in the altars of the Motherland,Will in reward obtain a tombWhere the light of glory shines.And, from Iguala, the beloved ensignLaced to his bloody sword,Crowned with immortal laurel,He will make a cross of his grave.

Motherland, Motherland! Your sons swearTo breathe out their last breath on your altars,If the clarion with its warlike toneCalls them to struggle with valour.For you the garlands of olive!For them a memory of glory!For you a laurel of victory!For them a tomb of honour!